Birth of a Legend
by Dreadedfemale
Summary: E/O drabble challenge entry it's a little over the word count. Ever wonder where the show's third star was born? What happened the day the metallicar was pulled off the assembly line.


A/N: This was supposed to be a drabble for the E/O challenge. Prompt was Drag/s/ing etc.. I sort of overshot the mark by a word or thousand but the prompts in there I promise! Don't know if this is acceptable or not but I'm posting it anyway.

Disclaimer: Not mine! Well the oc's are but you know. ;) Enjoy!

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I've got a car  
I've got a big black shiny car  
Maybe tonight we could go for a ride  
Out on the road  
Out on the wide wide open road  
Baby lets see what we can find  
Alright

"_Drive"—Shannon Noll_

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George Marshall loved his job. He'd worked hard to get to where he was. As Industrial Production Manager for GM, not a single car left the line without his seal of approval.

He didn't mind that he'd had to move up to Canada back in '53 when the plant opened. Oshawa was a great place to raise a family.

Yeah he loved his job. Loved the smell of the plant. New leather, hot plastic, the tang of welded metal and exhaust.

He loved the busy hum of the machines. The tinny squawks of the p.a.. The easy camaraderie of his men and the rich baritone laughter that would find it's way through the smog of factory noise to his office. When he was in his office anyway.

He spent most of his time on the floor. Walking the line. Giving praise and encouragement as he went. A clasped hand, pat on the back.

Sometimes he'd even roll his sleeves up and get right up in it elbow to elbow with the line workers.

Anything to keep his people happy and his plant running smoothly. He took his job very seriously.

George was a levelheaded guy. Not prone to fancy or daydreams. Didn't believe in anything he couldn't see. Except the lord that is. That's why it was so strange. What happened when he was looking over that Impala.

It was 1967. GM had just redesigned the Impala along the lines of the 1963 Buick Riviera, which featured coke bottle shaping. Man they were pretty. All curved up like Barbara Eden on "I dream of Genie". The curves were biggest on the '67-'68 models.

She was Tuxedo Black, black and tan interior and chrome. They all had lots of chrome then.

Well George he got out his clipboard and an approval sheet grabbed his pen with the little stamper on the end.

First thing he always did was take a slow walk around the car **dragging** his fingers across the paint. Usually all he felt was cold steel and the hard smoothness of the triple gloss clear coat.

This time he felt jolt. A little snap of electricity. It traveled up his arm. Then an overwhelming sadness. Followed by a simmering rage. He smelled sulfur and fire. Startled he pulled his hand away. The sensations ceased.

He shook his head. _Shouldn'ta had that third cup a joe this morning. _Too much caffeine could really make him jittery.

Trying to throw off the vague sense of unease that had settled in the pit of his belly, he walked around to the driver's side. He'd start her up. There wasn't anything more musical to him than a finely tuned engine hot off the line. It was sure to settle his nerves.

He slid the key in the lock and turned it a few times. Click, click, click everything was in working order. He reached out and tugged the handle the door came open easy as pie so he was at a loss as to why it squeaked so loud. Brow wrinkled he slipped in behind the wheel. The scent of fresh leather filled his nostrils. He inhaled savoring it. Shut the door with another almighty squeal.

With his right hand he reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror. He nearly jumped out of his skin when instead of sleek black leather he saw a man sitting behind him in the back seat.

His eyes were closed and blood ran freely from his head spattering against the upturned collar of his leather jacket.

Heart thump, thump, thumping in his chest he turned. The seat was empty. Maybe he was coming down with something.

Key in the ignition quick turn and she was purring like a jungle beast in heat. He rubbed the dash. "Good Girl."

Flipped on the radio, turned the dial. Music sucked the silence from the interior of the car. _"One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small and the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all….." _

Eyes closed he softly drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music. The squeak of hinges in need of oil pulled him from his reverie. He glanced over to see his foreman sliding into the passenger seat. "Hey boss how's she doing?"

"Hinges need oil Mikey but other than that she's passing with flying colors."

"What is this shit you're listening to boss? This car needs rock and roll." Mike the foreman reached toward the knob.

George slapped his hand away before he could change the station. "Driver picks the music shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Mike gave him a strange look then got out of the car. "Whatever you say boss."

A squeal and a slam later found George confused and uneasy. What was wrong with him?

Determined to finish his inspection he killed the engine, released the hood. Underneath everything was polished to a shine. All the parts and pieces were clean, new; still he couldn't get it out of his head that the Carb was out of tune. Heard a pop and a hiss. Almost like a beer bottle opening. Man was he losing it. Must be because he was feeling he could use a beer right about then. He checked the carburetor, found everything in order. Gently almost reverently, he closed the hood. _Easy baby._

The trunk opened without a fuss but the mechanism that should have held the lid in an upright position wouldn't catch. He glanced around for something to prop it open with. The random image of a sawed off shotgun popped into his head. The trunk was spacious and empty. It should have been full to the brim with weapons, bags of salt, fuel canisters. The acrid stink of gun oil. Occult symbols painted on the inside of the trunk lid. The image was there and gone.

From over his right shoulder came a man's voice, "We've got work to do."

It echoed. So did the bang the trunk lid made when he dropped it. Mike hurried over brows furrowed. "Something wrong with the car boss?"

"No! Uh, no, nothing just uh… signing the sheet now. You can get this one out of here." He stamped the sheet and handed it to Mike.

"Boss you ok? You look like you seen a ghost."

George didn't answer. He just walked away.

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"I thought you said this car was new?" The kid said opening and closing the squeaky front door of the shiny black Chevy.

"It is. That's a factory oversight son. Nothing a little oil won't fix. Now what do you say? Wanna take her for a spin?" The salesman dangled the keys out in front of him. They glinted gold in the sun.

The kid got in the driver's seat, ran his hands over the steering wheel. She was a beauty.

"Car like this only goes up in value son. The Impala is Chevy's number one seller for a reason you know. Forty years from now this thing'll be a classic, mark my words."

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A/N2: There are ten references to different episodes included in this story. Some are more subtle than others. According to the information I was able to gather there is only one plant in North America that produces the Chevy Impala. It's located in Oshawa, Ontario, Canada and was opened in 1953. So it's likely all the shows many Impala's actually came from this plant.


End file.
